


#52

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College Football, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Gridiron Football, M/M, NFL, Slow Burn, Sports, Sports Metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 04:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11349450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They call himEl Tigre. He is an emerging outside linebacker of theLondon Panthers, a university gridiron football team affiliated with the BAFA, and a team that has explosively and suddenly put its name in the forefront of the standings since he was drafted on the team. His stats were considered a trend-setter even within the college level, and it was even rumored that he is setting his eyes on a bigger prize -- to be drafted by one of the NFL franchises.  Despite his headstrong personality and polarizing presence in the media, the infamous university linebacker has become a cherished symbol amongst his peers and an icon of inspiration to the young athletes enamored by the rough and muddy spirit of the American sport -- an icon of hope for the underdogs at heart.The youngest Holmes brother, for the life of him, cannot figure out why the man is endlessly infuriating.Although if he were being honest, the last word of that line of thought should've been -- "fascinating".





	#52

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote this, I was still somewhat new to the mechanics of gridiron football. I was not raised in a family that loved anything to do with football, so forgive the lack of insight and depth in the first few chapters. If I got anything done wrong here, comment on the parts that need fixing. 
> 
> For anyone that's interested, I root for the Baltimore Ravens. Hence the number in the title.

He never really could understand it. The rough and tumble of the sport. Why grown men would rather get themselves pummeled and worn down in the field, risking the development of chronic traumatic encephalopathy years down the road. He could not comprehend the possible list of advantages to be garnered by participating in such a sport. He does not understand the need for the intensity, the need for _passion_ , the hunger for the energy that seems to pervade the spectators in the stadiums. The rambunctious spirit and wild heart of the fanatics - such a phenomenon borders on lunacy, he thinks. It was even more bewildering to even consider keeping track of the chaotic manner by which numbers and jargon were seemingly used and thrown around. He grudgingly admires the quick eyes and sharp focus that the masses were surprisingly capable of mustering during the peak periods of the game.

Yardage, sacks, pass rushes, forward passes, safeties, etc. He was certain that there exists a resource dedicated exclusively to the clarification of such elusive terminology. However, his reputation practically begs him otherwise. After all, what would be thought of the great schizoid loner of Imperial College London if he were witnessed attending one of the games? What would they think of him? Would they be astonished that he finally jumped on the bandwagon? Or will they view it as a passing curiosity?

He'd gladly let them think that, if it meant he will be left to his own devices.

But all the same, here he was again, watching from the sidelines. The chill of September was upon them, and he was entirely unsuccessful at blocking out the chilled whispers of the wind that swept through the entirety of the stadium.

He doesn't understand _why_.

"Hey, watch it, yeah? I _did not_ drag your lazy arse all the way here just so you can have that thousand-yard stare on your face, bruv," a grey-haired male beside him asserted, annoyingly. He whipped his head around and scowled. The other man grinned. "The game is 'bout to start, and ya haven' seen #52 come out yet."

"That was exactly the point of coming here, isn't it? I needed to know what the fuss was all about. Do you have any idea how _annoying_ it is to have a lecture theatre packed with gridiron football enthusiasts, yacking on forever about _one team_?" he snapped.

"Oh, so you _do_ know your terms! Big improvement comin' from you, Holmes! Get on with the program, as they say!" the other man grinned.

"Shut up," he hissed. "And just tell me already. All this fuss about one number."

"Really? You are the most clueless person I've ever met. And for the record, it's not just 'some number'," the other man chuckled. He turned to his right. "Oi, this guy, tell 'im, will ya? "

"Really? The great Holmes is _lacking_ in knowledge on this area?" the other man's friend, _grinned_ offensively. "Oh boy, you have a _lot_ to catch up on."

Talk about _macho_ men and their irrational need for keeping the suspense.

"Just spit it out, Lestrade. What is so special about this one?" he spat.

"- and here is the _El Tigre_ , everyone!"

He winced as the stadium spontaneously erupted into a thunderous and wicked applause. The guttural and basal vocalization of a Siberian tiger sprang to life and reverberated throughout the enclosed space of the Wembley Stadium. The electronic static of the overhead speakers receded before returning with a vengeance, further increasing the volume of the guttural sounds. The sounds merged with an electronically-produced music set, before erupting into an explosive conclusion. The sonorous quality of beating drums pierced the atmosphere, oscillating with the layers of noise and music working away at the background. After a few seconds, the thunderous applause of the crowd suddenly perished.

A speck of an obsidian and crimson-coloured uniform flashed into existence at the base of the stadium.

Arms outstretched, the burly athlete reared his head back and _roared_.

The thunderous applause returned with a vengeance.

" **'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. The hands can't hit what the eyes can't see!** " Lestrade and his friend, _yelled_ in frightening unison.

The same quote was aired over the stadium.

" _What_. Are. You. Doing?" he hissed.

"Seriously? Come on, Holmes. I mean, you'd have to _at least_ know that. Every athlete has got his own kind of ritual, yeah?" Lestrade frowned.

"I can't believe it, bruv. When ya told me he was clueless, I thought it was bad enough. I guess I just never knew just _how bad_ ," the other man _giggled_. He threw him the best glare he could - the one that would make another sane man quake in his shoes. He failed. "I cannot believe it. Seriously."

"Okay, seriously, here comes your crash course - at this point, your ignorance of this glorious sport is hurting me. Really. See that man out there? He has more tackles and sacks than anyone else in college football history. And he's not bad with his interception stats, I'll give him that. He's our very own version of Lawrence Taylor on the rise, and I'm going to tell ya he is _bound_ to cause some hurricane to come through in the next few hours. He's just going to _wreck_ the other teams," Lestrade says. "There is not a man in the college level of gridiron football that can change the dynamic and atmosphere of a game as much as _our_ El Tigre. The Tiger. And we call him that, because he is an absolute _beast_ in the field."

"Preys on them like the animal he is," the other man upturns his upper lip in a mimicry of a snarl. "And if you're the quarterback on the other side of the field, you better pray he doesn't break through your O-line before you pass the ball. I'm tellin' ya -- our _El Tigre_ practically lives and feeds on his ability to dominate the other team's O-line. And those stats are just going to keep raising the bar."

"You'd better pray you're not on the other side. He's a great man to play with, but a devastating hurricane if you get in his way," Lestrade grinned.

He looked around.

The stadium seemed to be suspended in a state of complete frenzy. Snarls were piercing the air, and the crowd continues to pitch in.

There it was. The fire in their eyes should frighten him.

Oddly enough, it didn't.

He felt _calmer_.

"Okay, we better shut up. The first quarter is about to start."

"Relay all your questions to him during the game, and not me," Lestrade said, grim-faced. "I've already missed way too many of his games 'cause of work. Not about to miss this one either."

Further down the field, the crimson eyes of a predator sprung to life.


End file.
